Another sign, Meggie thought when she woke up at nine o’clock the next morning, instantly awake, filled with so much excitement she thought she’d vomit. It was the sort of excitement and fear she’d never felt before in her life. If feeling sick to her stomach was the price, she’d endure it gladly. Yes, Cleo’s dream performance was a sign. Two leaps, two graceful soaring leaps, and Meggie would have him.
Jeremy Stanton-Greville, Baron Greville, of Cardinal House in Fowey, arrived at the Sherbrooke town house at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning.
Darby, only fifty years old, had taken over his butler duties six months before, and he was still basking in his new responsibilities. And finally, the staff recognized his importance. He knew he was awe-inspiring, what with his measured walk, more of a smooth glide really, his dignified set of the shoulders and his incredibly well-pressed black knee pants and white linen.
He had known Jeremy Stanton-Greville since he was nine years old, newly arrived in England from Jamaica, and Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke’s brother-in-law.
What a handsome man he’d become. Darby hadn’t seen him since he was a carefree young man, wild and free and a new member of the Four Horse Club, wearing their colors, racing to the death.
For the first time since he’d assumed butlerdom, Darby smiled, showing a missing molar.
“It’s Darby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good God, I see you’re now in charge of this place. Congratulations.” And Jeremy shook Darby’s hand, nearly sending the redheaded Darby into a swoon of pleasure.
“Ah, my lord, it’s been too long, far too long. I haven’t laid an eye on you since—what was it—September of 1815, yes, that was it, there were such celebrations because Napoleon was gone once and for all. How have you been?”
Jeremy smiled. “I have been just fine, Darby, traveling quite a bit, to Jamaica, you know, to my plantation there and then to Baltimore.”
“You went to Baltimore? Why ever would you wish to go there?”
Jeremy turned at Meggie Sherbrooke’s voice. He turned and smiled at her. “Hello, Meggie. Yes, I was just telling Darby that I spent several years in Jamaica at Camille
Hall, my sugar plantation there. Then I went to Baltimore to stay with James Wyndham and his family. They have a very famous stud and racehorses. I learned an immense amount.”
“Surely you already knew an immense amount, Jeremy. After all, you were raised by my uncle Ryder.”
He took the white hand she was offering him. “Would you believe it? I learned even more about horse racing and breeding. In addition to racing horses, I want to start a stud at my home in Fowey. I needed to learn everything I could before I began.”
At the touch of his hand, Meggie nearly swallowed her tongue. Never in her eighteen years had she felt the slightest bit of anything at all when a boy or a man had touched her—admittedly most of the touching had been done by male relatives and the good Lord knew there was no titillation in that. Jeremy was a relative, but not really. They shared no blood. She couldn’t remember his touching her when she was thirteen, except maybe to take her hand when he’d arrived or when he’d left. She could just remember standing about, staring at her god, perfectly willing to worship him from whatever distance was required.
“I suppose there is more money in horse racing than in cat racing,” she said.
She looked down at his hand holding hers. She didn’t want to release him. He’d stopped talking and was looking at her now, a dark eyebrow cocked up a good inch.
“Oh,” Meggie said, and with the greatest reluctance, she let go of his hand.
His head was cocked to one side. “Is your father here?”
She shook her head, took a step closer, then drew up short. Where was her brain? It had shut down, it was that simple. Just looking at him, listening to him speak, watching how he used his hands when he talked, and her brain had moved out, vacated her head.
“No, Father and Mary Rose couldn’t leave Glenclose-on-Rowan just yet. Perhaps in a fortnight they will visit London and see me all togged out in my new clothes.